Le Lapin, le Leon, le Mouton, et la Grenouille
by VixonVulpe
Summary: Arthur dreams of a world in which the sun never sets, but all Francis can see is the sunburn that world will give him. [Set during England's Empire era. A short drabble about the complicated relationship between France and England, and about France's view of nation-hood in general. FrUK. Vague implications of past sexual acts.]


A lion, Francis thinks when he watches Arthur dozing, sprawled across the bed as though he owns it all. It's languid and arrogant, but not ungraceful. Perhaps that's because these days Arthur seems to think he does own it all. These days he's not entirely wrong, either.

And like a lion he is something be feared when he is awake, and something to flee when he is hungry, which is more often than not now that he's had a taste of power. Power is a teaspoon of sugar away from ecstasy, and it drives a man just as mad. Francis has tried both in his countless days, but he's found he himself doesn't quite have the stomach for power. Or rather, power doesn't seem to have the stomach for him. It always trickles from his grasp like poisoned water. Like blood.

Francis has seen rivers of blood in his time – an interesting parallel to the rivers of water that make up his veins (just as the mountains are his spine and the capital city his heart). It flows endlessly, and to a younger nation it would seem to be the fault of empires like the one that naps now atop his sheets, but Francis is old enough to know better. So long as blood exists, there will be reason to spill it. All that matters is who spills the most, and which lands are painted red.

There is a lion in his bed who bathes in blood and self-righteous narcissism. A feline of sinewy muscles and dangerous avarice. A beast who cannot, will not be tamed. He's not the first to lay there. Others will eventually take his place.

But Francis knows this creature will be the last to share his bed, millions of years from now, when everything ends.

Countries don't have the luxury of friendship, though there are those who pretend. Francis has watched 'children' surpass their 'families', he's seen 'families' become 'enemies' and 'enemies' become 'lovers', and 'lovers' become 'traitors' and 'enemies' again. Alliances only last until it is no longer convenient, and in this world sex is as versatile as language. Francis is fluent in both.

He doesn't dare dream of a 'better' world. He doesn't dream of a world where taking someone to bed is a sign of intimacy, rather than a display of power. He does long for a world where a stable relationship is a possibility.

He will settle for this round about game of cat and mouse. Lion and frog.

The trouble with immortality is the time span. Every measure of time becomes exponentially smaller as it continues to pass. Once a year was the whole of his life. Now it is but a blink. Such a skewed perception of time means everything happens slowly and rapidly all at once. Francis has learned to take it all as it comes, only as it comes, and to try not to think of where it is going.

And so there is a lion in his bed, and while Francis knows that golden mane won't be there in the morning, he allows the wasting of time as he simply watches the rise and fall of the regal cat's breaths. Arthur is beautiful. He is inelegant and arrogant and selfish and far too self-assured for his own good, but he is intoxicating, somehow.

Sometimes Francis feels as green as the frog Arthur likens him to with envy. Arthur can see nothing but a bright future, one in which the sun never sets. It's terribly naive of him, and he seems to Francis like a boy trying to force respect from others, and all Francis can see is the terrible sunburn that ever glowing sun will give the boy once all is said and done. But still he feels a burning envy for that fiery spirit. There is only one thing in this world that can invoke such a passion in himself, and it is this lion who has swallowed the rabbit before him whole, and who will one day be reborn as a sheep.

Francis thinks, as he is frog green with envy, that at least frogs turn into princes when kissed.


End file.
